


Chance, Design, and the Universe

by dornishsphinx



Category: Persona 2, Persona 3, Persona 4, Persona Series, Persona | Revelations Persona
Genre: Gen, No Persona 5 Characters, The chapters that contain Persona 5 spoilers are marked in the head notes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2018-10-12 08:49:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10486920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornishsphinx/pseuds/dornishsphinx
Summary: The Tarot Journey, as experienced through twenty-two first encounters.





	1. THE FOOL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Fool - the beginning of the journey, empty, yet holding infinite potential.

“Oh come on, cut me some slack here, I’ve not had a drink in weeks.”

The voice carried across the train carriage, loud enough to worm its way through her headphones, though thankfully not enough to drown out the music. She briefly heard some rumbling that could have been a reply before the voice came back, full force: “Don’t be such a drag. I mean, we’re finally free—don’t you just wanna go have fun now?”

More faint muttering followed, but she chose to ignore it, eyes closed, focusing on the beat of the music. Its rhythm was out of sync with the sound of rattling as the train sped ahead, but it was a better soundtrack than the voices. She liked being sociable and all, but the last thing she wanted was strange men thinking she was interested in their conversation.

“God, you’re so straight-laced.” There came the voice again, still too loud, “And after I was gonna play wingman for you and everything—”

She rummaged around in her pocket for the volume control, turning it up loud enough for a faint buzzing to whine in the background. Irritating, sure, but still preferable to some whiner's litany on picking up women. Really, she’d have preferred booting up that new game she’d downloaded on a whim, _Eternal Punishment Mobile_ , but alas, it required constant internet access, and the train’s wi-fi was spotty at best.

She leant back in her seat, mind drifting into blankness. The song played out, an interlude of a few seconds between it and the next.

“Women who go there are smoking hot, if you don’t believe me, let me take…”

The next song blasted into her ears, then faded. Her eyes were heavy after travelling so far; she closed them a fraction of a second too long. The next blink took a long moment. Then the next, what felt like an eternity.

When she opened her eyes, coffins loomed around her, leaning against the carriage walls and windows, haphazard as discarded cardboard boxes. They blocked out the green-tinged moonlight and gouged great stripes of black onto the floor with their long shadows. No. No, it couldn’t be. Midnight already?

She pulled off her headphones—it was never a good idea to have muffled hearing during the green hour, in case one of those shadow-creatures ambled too close to her blind spot—and did a cursory examination of her surroundings. There didn’t appear to be any lurking about, though it was too dark to be a hundred percent sure.

It was rare for her to come across conscious people during the green hour, since she usually made sure to be safely sequestered in her room, alone, when it struck twelve. So, it took a second for her brain to catch up when she spotted him. He was a cop, judging from his uniform, one of the two charmers she’d been trying to ignore. He'd staggered out from behind one of the coffins, legs visibly shaking, hand going for his belt, and head swivelling around wildly.

His eyes snapped onto her. She stood up straighter and forced herself to project confidence.

“Are you alright, officer?” she asked, voice barely wavering. He stared at her for a few moments before he could bring himself to answer.

“What…” He trailed off, looking back at the coffin he’d been chatting with moments before. “What the hell is going on, here?”

“Wait, does that mean—have you never been in the green hour before?” Her mind was racing. Could people just experience it one day, then, without ever having done so before?

“The green hour?” He looked back at her, askance. “What the hell is that?”

Oh, yeah. “That’s just what I call it. I mean, if nobody else really knows it exists, it’s not like there’s a proper name I can use—I just call it the green hour because, well. You know. Everything’s all green.”

Green, green, green: the word had started to sound strange in her mouth from overuse, like it was losing meaning.

The cop lurched over to the closest window, craning his neck upwards. “God,” he said, softly, like a prayer. He collapsed onto the seats beside it. “What. What the hell is even happening right now? We were just supposed to be getting a drink after the shift.”

“It’s okay,” she said. She wasn’t doing so well herself, locked in here as they were, but she had to stop him from melting down. If he had a panic attack or something, she had no idea how to help him—and it wasn’t like there’d be anybody else around able to do anything either.

“Okay?” It came out as a growl. She took a step back—maybe she’d been worried about his high-running emotions for the wrong reasons. “What about this is okay to you? My partner’s a coffin! And the sky is fucking green!”

“It stops after an hour,” she said, trying to inject calmness into her voice and failing badly. She was hoping he could be reasoned with, but if he couldn’t, this could get worse, and fast. “Then everything goes back to normal and continues on like nothing ever happened.”

He didn’t seem to notice her stuttering, thankfully. “So, this isn’t permanent. Well at least that’s—”

Then he stopped and narrowed his eyes at her. “Wait. How do you know so much about this, anyway?”

“I’ve never not experienced it, so.”

He stared at her, then back out at the moon. “Jeez.”

He seemed calmer now. She let herself relax a little, though forced herself not to let down her guard completely. She’d heard the stories; the modern-day fables which warned girls about what could happen if you found yourself alone at night with a stranger on a train.

The cop was holding his head in one hand, forcing his breathing into an even pattern. His face looked sickly and drawn in the unnatural lighting; it gave his eyes a green glitter, like the moonlight was being sucked inside them to be devoured. She didn't know what, but there was something about the man she couldn’t help but—

That train of thought stuttered to a horrified halt as she heard it. The small of her back grew cold; instinct shouted at her to run even as her mind shouted back that there was nowhere to go. She’d taken off her headphones and still it had managed to get in her blind spot. Goddamnit.

The cop noticed her expression change. “What is it now?” he asked, frustration seeping through his tone. “What else could possibly—” She saw the second he clocked it, his expression shifting from angry suspicion to cold, unmistakable fear. “So, you said you’ve been at this for a while,” he said, jaw clenched and voice at a far higher pitch than before as he slowly reached downwards, never once averting his eyes. “Mind telling me what that thing is?”

“Shadow,” she said, still frozen in place. “You can’t—you can't let them get near you.”

Jerking his head as a signal to get out the way, the cop drew his gun from its holster; obviously, he wanted a clean shot at the thing. She complied—better to have one clear objective, rather than listen to her own mind as it screamed a dozen different things at her.She scarpered down the aisle, getting out of the way of the gun as he trained it on the shambling shadow. It felt uncomfortably like hiding from a tidal wave behind a sand-castle. _It’s fine_ , she reasoned with herself: he was a police officer and had a weapon, which was more than she usually had to drive them off.

All the faux-positive thoughts couldn't fill the sinkhole of terror in her stomach, though.

He fired, twice in quick succession. She slipped the headphones back on quickly, even as her ears were already ringing in pain, barely catching the horrible groaning sound that emanated from deep within the black mass at the end of the carriage. Amid the darkness, a pair of glowing red eyes locked onto them. It started to move, slowing down a little, but never stopping.

“God,” said the cop angrily to himself as he fired again, “How the hell am I gonna explain this to Harada? Oh, sorry sir, why did I use my gun? Oh, I had to, sir, believe me, there was a goddamn _shadow monster_ which wouldn’t _fucking_ stay down and my partner can’t vouch for me because he was a fucking _coffin_ at the time, sir—”

His rant was cut off by the fourth bang of the gun; the shadow-creature shrieked, withering away and collapsing back into the darkness. The cop glared at the space where it had been for a long while, before finally lowering his gun and stashing it away. He turned around to her. She slipped her headphones off, still wincing a little.

“How many of those things normally crop up?” he asked her.

“It depends,” she said. “They usually materialise in areas with a lot of coffins.”

They surveyed the carriage, and all the coffins crammed in next to each other.

“Screw this,” he said, taking a few long strides over to the train door and emergency exit button. He slammed down on it. Nothing happened. He jabbed it a few more times. Still nothing.

“Um,” she said, “Electric stuff doesn’t really work during the green hour.” She waved her phone, with its blank screen.

“Oh, well, isn’t that just perfect,” he spat, before grabbing his baton. “I guess that leaves the windows.” He cracked at the closest one a few dozen times, but the reinforced glass refused to break. He dropped the baton on the ground with a sound of disgust. “What time do you think it is?” he asked her, breathing turned hard. She had no idea—if travelling screwed with her sense of time, the green hour destroyed it completely. He sighed, and swore, before freezing. “Oh, not again,” he said, harshly, grabbing his gun again. “Why won’t they just—”

She snatched her headphones and jammed them on before he could fire again. She scanned the area: there were a number of them now, though she couldn’t count them in the murk.

The cop shot at them. She cowered—and yet, she was more angry at herself than properly terrified. She should be doing something, helping him fend them off somehow, but she had nothing that would work as a weapon on her, so how could she possibly—

The baton. It lay abandoned on the floor.

Slowly, cautiously, she crept over to it, keeping an eye on the creatures as she went. She wasn’t all the way over when the firing stopped—she looked up at the cop, questioningly, as the shadow-creatures came closer.

“Shit, shit, shit. _Shit_.”

“Don’t you have any more ammo?”

“There isn’t any more! I’m not even supposed to use the gun in the first place!”

There was no choice—abandoning stealth, she lunged for the baton, managing to snatch it just as the shadow-creatures rushed forward. Her mind began to whiten, but she fought it, hard. She twisted her fingers around the baton, making a quiet noise of triumph as she did, before turning back.

No. No, no, no. They were swarming him. She thought she heard herself shriek as she smashed down, hard, on the ones closest to her. But it was too late. In the background, she could hear him babbling: “Oh, god,” he was saying, “That’s right, you're right, I've been wasting all this time. I was never gonna get anywhere, why did I try—”

And he was gone, all disappeared in a swathe of black. Red eyes swivelled around to fix themselves on her. One, or maybe all of them, gurgled. Goddamn. This was bad. This was very bad. She threw the baton at them in desperation, pulling herself back to the very edge of the seats, flattening herself against the window, for all the good it could possibly do her—

Then, around her, the blue of true moonlight poured into the carriage, dissolving away all the green and unnatural black. She blinked and the coffins were people once more, one of them bellowing “Adachi!”—just _Adachi_ , any usual honorific lost to panic—and launching himself across the aisle to a too-quiet heap on the floor.

She rose from her seat, a faint tremble seizing her, and drifted over to him. She'd never stuck around to look at one of the shadow-creatures' victims before, but if he hadn't been there, she'd have been on the floor in his place. She owed it to him to look. Still, she had to force herself not to look away: he was breathing, sure, but his eyes—nothing. Just blankness. Horror tasted like bile in her mouth.

“Miss,” said someone, jostling her shoulder. “Miss, please, move aside. There's nothing you can do.”

She moved back, almost glad for the excuse, sinking back into her seat. The music had started playing again, but she couldn't even hear it properly; a ringing had started in her ears.

_They have to be stopped_ , she found herself thinking, savagely. But how? Nobody knew about the shadows and she was just one kid. She watched, powerless, as some passengers, claiming medical experience, surrounded the man—Adachi, his friend had called him, Adachi—like the shadows had done not moments before.

_They must be stopped. Somehow._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know technically Adachi's the Jester, but for the purposes of this fic, I'm taking that to mean reversed Fool.   
> (Edited 8/10/17)


	2. THE MAGICIAN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Magician - attaining one’s will requires a stern will and unfailing determination.

Yosuke swiped his finger across the screen to bring up the email, again, just like he'd done at least five times now. _Meet your assigned partner at the clock outside the main building at 12pm sharp!_ As he exited out of his email, the little timestamp at the top of the screen ticked over from 12.29 to 12.30. He'd officially been stood up. Fantastic.

Maybe they were caught in traffic? Then again, it was entirely possible that they'd just decided to not bother turning up—and hey, wouldn't it be just his luck if he'd been assigned an asshole? Well, this could at least be a good anecdote for his first call back home.

Home. Huh. Yosuke folded his arms across his chest and leant back against the wall, letting his gaze drift upwards to level with the towers which loomed over the plaza. Inaba was _home_ in his head now? Weird.

Maybe it was just because he was thrown by how much the city had changed in his absence. He'd assumed he’d get back into the swing of things soon enough when he first arrived, but now it was undeniable, even for him: the city had morphed into something that was, while undoubtedly similar to what he remembered, not quite the same. Several of his old haunts had been shut down—while he hated to empathise with the those among the residents of Inaba who’d shunned him and his family, he had to admit to finally gaining a glimmer of understanding the moment he discovered his favourite takoyaki stand had gone under.

And it wasn't just superficial stuff, either. The easy closeness with his old friends had been shaken by years’ worth of texts gone unanswered, and he wasn’t quite sure how to fix it, or if he even should. And the last time he'd gone by his old neighbourhood—having got off the subway a stop too early out of an old habit—he'd seen a strange kid's face in the window of his family's old flat (he'd bolted and not gone back since.)

“Yo! Sorry I’m late!”

He snapped to. A friendly looking guy was waving over at him, presumably his assigned partner. Inwardly, he breathed a sigh of relief, flipped his phone closed and plastered on a grin.

“Hey, no worries, I was kinda late too!” he lied.

“Yosuke Hanamura, right? I’m Kenji Tomochika. They sent your name and photo so we could find all you lost newbies.”

Tomochika waved his phone over at him and _oh boy_ , that was _not_ a good photo of him. Could you redo your official uni photo? He should probably look into it.

“Oh, cool!" Yosuke said. "Good to meet you, senpai!”

God, what the hell was his voice doing? Why was it so high and panicky? Had Tomochika noticed? He hadn’t seemed to, but was he was just being polite?

“So, hey, you wanna come see the canteen first?” he said. “Food’s not great, but it’s hella cheap. I’ll pay. I’m the reason your lunchtime’s been cut in half, after all.”

“Sounds good. Senpai.”

Tomochika grinned. “Awesome, I’m starving! We can do the tour after, ‘kay?”

The canteen was a blocky, grey building, with some weird murals painted across it that only made the rest of it look all the more industrial. Inside, it was swarming with students; all the ambient chatter made the air hum. Yosuke hesitated, but Tomochika pushed on ahead to the hot food section. His attention was caught by what looked like they were supposed to be steak skewers. A small, nostalgic smile started tugging at the side of his mouth at the sight of them.

“Hey, you should get the curry rice,” Tomochika said loudly, “It’s actually okay. The rest of the stuff here pretty much sucks.”

His voice carried. Yosuke winced—he’d been on the other side of the counter so many times, after all. Still, it wasn’t as though the guy was wrong: casting an eye over the other options, it became super obvious that none of them were gonna be appetising. At all.

He went with Tomochika's suggestion in the end. He tentatively lifted out some of the rice, carefully examined it—hey, you didn't encounter Yukiko Amagi’s cooking and not check for suspicious patches of colour or lumpy bits that shouldn’t be lumpy in every other new meal you ever had—and took a bite. Flavour—sweet, spicy flavour—burst over his tongue.

“Huh, not bad,” he said in surprise.

“I know, right?” Tomochika exclaimed, brandishing his own chopsticks in a way that would make anyone with the slightest care for dining etiquette wince. “Trust me, if you’re coming here to eat, you wanna stick with that. Someone should profit from all those terrible lunches I went through my first year.”

“Hey, it can’t be as bad as some of the stuff I’ve had back—” He paused. It was one thing to call Inaba home to himself, quietly in his head, and quite another to say it out loud to a stranger he was trying to impress. “Back in the town I was living in the past couple years. Seriously, it was like they thought steak croquettes were high cuisine.”

“Oh man, that is the worst. What town is that, anyway?”

“Uh, Inaba? It’s pretty tiny, it’s kinda near-”

“Whoa, wait, I think I know that place! I mean, unless there’s a whole bunch of little towns with the exact same name. Which could be the case, I guess. Lemme see, uh… is the school called Yasogami?”

Yosuke’s jaw dropped. How? How the ever-loving hell did this guy know Inaba? Nobody knew Inaba. Mom had pitched a fit when she'd figured out how remote the town the company had been moving Dad to was, and that had only been after an hour-long google search to actually find the place.

“Yeah,” he said, dumbfounded. “Uh, wow. How do you know Inaba? It’s like, in the middle of nowhere. It probably doesn’t even show up on maps.”

It was only after he said it that it occurred to him: it wasn’t as though Inaba was as unknown as it had been when he moved there. It couldn’t be. Not after everything that had happened last year.

“Oh, our school did an trip there in second year, to exchange ideas on learning styles, or some bull like that. It sure was, uh. Quaint?”

Oh, so it wasn’t because of the murder spree—well, that was unexpected. Ugh, wait, why was he even thinking about that?   
Shoving down the sudden pit in his stomach, he twisted his face back into the jokey expression he’d had it before.

“You’re telling me. I had to move there because of my dad’s job—from this city, actually. Wasn’t exactly an easy adjustment.”

Tomochika winced at that. “I am so sorry.”

The response rubbed Yosuke the wrong way a little. It wasn’t Tomochika’s fault, obviously: he was just going along with the atmosphere of camaraderie to keep things from getting awkward. Still, he’d found himself missing the little place over the weeks he’d been back, quaint and tiny and murder-y as it had been. Even the steak croquettes, at points (hey, he’d never said his feelings were rational.)

“Nah, but it wasn’t really so bad. Like, there was a city not too far away—I mean sure, it wasn’t convenient like here or anything, but I wasn’t completely cut off from the world or anything.”

“I mean, I guess that’s not as bad as it could have been, but still. I can’t even think about going back to Tatsumi Port Island now that I’ve lived here and the city there’s actually pretty big. But man, if you’re from here, maybe you should be the one showing me around! I've only been here a few—”

“Tatsumi Port Island?” interrupted Yosuke in surprise. “I’ve been there! Well, the school, anyway. Maybe it was the same programme you went on to Inaba?”

“You visited Gekkoukan? Man, that must have been after I left. I wonder if anything’s changed since then.”

Wait. If Tomochika had been at Gekkoukan High a few years before Yosuke went on the exchange there, did that mean he’d gone to school with those Shadow Operative weirdos who’d shown up to take Labrys away? Naoto’s investigations, at least the ones she’d shared with the group, had pointed to Gekkoukan as their old base of operations. It would be around the right time too, considering the guy only had a few years on him. Hell, was he one of them? Those guys had been pretty suspicious, after all, so it wouldn’t be completely out of the left field if they sent one of their own to spy on him.

Oblivious to Yosuke’s minor freakout, Tomochika laughed.

“Man, that is so weird, like, we visited each others’ high schools and didn’t even know it. You think maybe the organisers looked into our backgrounds while matching us up, to see if people have anything in common like that?”

“Seems a bit much for them to bother with, doesn’t it?”

He peered at Tomochika, waiting for a reaction, but he just shrugged. “Huh, I guess you’re right.”

Maybe he wasn’t some Shadow Operative secret spy after all. Weirdly, he found himself a little disappointed.

“So,” said Tomochika, dragging out the sound, “Inaba. Actually, isn't that where that crazy murder case happened a couple of years ago? You’d have been living there at that point, right?”

Oh. Yeah. Of course he knew. It was stupid to think he hadn’t: it had made national news, after all.

“Yeah. I was.”

“Oh, wow, no way! Must’ve been pretty scary, huh?”

“Yeah. I mean, I guess.”

Something in Yosuke’s face—or voice, or maybe even just his aura—must have tipped Tomochika off, because he winced and in a hushed voice, he asked: “Ah, you didn’t. Uh. Know anybody who was, y'know…”

“I did, yeah.”

Tomochika winced. “Oh. Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up,” he said, and to his credit, he actually sounded sincere about it. “I mean. I lost a friend in high school, so. I know it’s not easy. I mean, he was closer to other people and it’s not like he was murdered but—I’m making this worse aren’t I? Sorry. I’ll shut up now.”

“It’s okay, man,” said Yosuke. “We weren’t really that close or anything.”

Well, it was true, even if only on her end.

“Still,” Tomochika said, “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Honestly, it’s no sweat. You didn’t know.”

Tomochika smiled back, a faint edge of nervousness creeping in at the edges. Oh, awesome, he’d managed to freak out the guy he was supposed to be impressing. What the hell had happened to him always being the most normal guy in the room?

“So, um,” said Tomochika, “Did you hear the new Kanamin Kitchen single? You know, the one they debuted at that LMB Fest during the summer?”

Oh, for God's sake.

“Yeah, you could say that,” said Yosuke, “I, uh. I was there, actually. When they debuted it at LMB Fest.”

“Oh wow, no way! I tried to get tickets myself, but it sold out so fast and scalpers’ prices are always way outta my budget. You must have been quick on the draw!”

Yosuke, after a long moment of consideration, elected not to mention that he’d not bought tickets, per se—quite the contrary, in fact: he’d actually received a performer’s fee. It had been a pittance compared to what Rise usually got for performances, admittedly, but it had been enough for a start on his rent. Living on his own in Tokyo, without his family home to fall back on, was a lot more expensive than he’d been expecting.

“Yeah," he said instead, grinning, "Now that I think about it... I guess I was pretty lucky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, I'm not really that familiar with Kenji since I completed the FeMC route and didn't completely finish everyone's social link in the MaMC route. Still, I think he turned out okay here.  
> (Edited 8/10/17)


	3. THE PRIESTESS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Priestess - the silent voice within one’s heart whispers the most profound knowledge.

“Yukiko!”

Her mother’s voice, low and firm, could cut through paper walls and daydreams alike. Yukiko put down her storybook, shuffled over to the sliding door, and pulled it open before her mother even managed to reach it.

“Yes, mother?” she asked.

Mother carried with her an even more harried air than usual, which was truly saying something. It was tourist season, after all, and with great business came great stress.

“Ah, there you are are, dear,” she said, buzzing with pent-up energy, like she needed to get rid of it all while out of the eyesight of guests, “I’ll need you to shadow a guest tonight and make sure she has everything she needs—I’d do it myself, but there’s just so much else to do that I can’t delegate.”

“Of course, mother,” said Yukiko, automatically. “Which guest?”

“Her name is Sonomura. She’s come incognito, but we’ve heard through the grapevine she works for some holistic therapy chain. Lot of nonsense, if you ask me,” she sniffed, “but just imagine what a boost it could bring to the inn if we manage to cut a deal with them!”

Yukiko’s first thought was that the inn didn’t particularly need more guests, considering the numbers already crammed into the inn—sometimes it felt like her room would be rented out just to have space for everybody. Still, she knew better than to say such things. Not every season had such numbers; besides, she’d heard the whispers about old family shops going out of business. The two maids she’d overheard gossiping about it had censored themselves the moment they realised the heir to the inn was standing nearby, but she could fit the pieces together. The inn wasn’t exactly as safe an investment as it had been in the past.

“Is there anything in particular I should direct her attention to?”

Yukiko felt warm inside when she saw the spark of approval in the depths of her mother’s crow-feet eyes. _She’s learning_ , they seemed to say.

“I’ve heard she’s here to investigate the healing qualities of the onsen—of course, it’ll speak for itself, but there’s no reason we can’t open her ears a little wider.”

Yukiko nodded. Her mother smiled back, before hurrying off down the hall towards the kitchens.

She considered her book. The cover was done in a bright, cartoonish style, depicting a great, flaming dragon coiled around a tower and a princess peeking out of its top window. She didn’t know when the guest was arriving, so if she left it, it might be the entire night before she got to continue. Would it look childish if she were to bring it? She’d really wanted to finish it and force Kanji to read it too so she’d have someone to talk to about it.

But still. She didn’t want to screw up. This was the first time mother had given her such a responsibility, one befitting the heir to the business. She couldn’t let her down.

With a light sigh, she shoved the book back on her desk—spine bent and pages flat down to keep her place—before leaving her room, casting a final, furtive glance over to it as she slid closed her door. She could come back to it; the guest was the priority.

She made her way to the check-in and settled down to wait, spending the time by carefully making sure her kimono didn’t crease in any obvious places and smiling placidly at any guests —or genuinely at staff—who came through. Luckily, though, it didn’t take too long for a likely suspect to show up: a slim, pretty woman with a pixie cut and kind brown eyes who was rather small for an adult—though she still towered over Yukiko. She was rather elfin in appearance, Yukiko found herself musing, as she bowed towards her.

“Welcome to the Amagi Inn,” she recited, “May I ask your name?”

The woman looked a little taken aback at the sight of her—understandable, since she wasn’t even a middle-schooler yet—but answered nonetheless.

“Maki Sonomura,” she said, confirming Yukiko’s suspicions, “I should have reservations from the 12th to the 14th?”

“Of course! Just let me check the books, and I’ll give you the tour.”

She got out the book, a heavy, ancient thing that her father insisted gave the the place a unique character, and started flipping through it.

“That’s very kind of you…?”

“Oh, let me introduce myself,” she said, “I’m Yukiko Amagi.”

“Ah, that explains it,” said Sonomura, with a nod. “Your family are the ones who run the inn, correct?”

Well, that was a good a place as any to start listing off the charms of the Amagi Inn. She put on a friendly smile, the sort that put guests at ease, and nodded back.

“Yes, that’s right. We’re one of the oldest family-run businesses in Inaba, actually, so it’s very important to us that the family is still hands-on with the day-to-day workings of the inn—ah! Here we are. If you’ll follow me, Sonomura-sama.”

Sonomura’s bags were quickly stowed away. There was still some time before dinner, so Yukiko took the opportunity to guide her around the inn, making a point to direct her attention towards particularly impressive artworks that had been here since her great-grandfather’s day. Antiquity, father had told her, added prestige to any place. She seemed to like it—at least, Yukiko really, really hoped she did. Admittedly, she could have been projecting her hopes onto her. Then, it was time for dinner. It passed smoothly enough. Mother had forbidden her from helping with the food, so she just hovered, hopefully unobtrusively, trying to keep an eye on her charge.  
Afterwards, Sonomura went back to her room.

Yukiko fidgeted in the hall. She wasn’t really sure what to do now. A little voice told her to go back to her book in her room—it had been a good bit as well, the princess just poised to find out that the dragon, supposed scourge of the land, was really her brother (they’d given that particular twist away in the prologue to drum up anticipation for the big reveal.)

Filial duty won out, though, and she elected to hover around for just a little while longer. Her decision paid off—not fifteen minutes later, she spied Sonomura coming down the corridor. Yukiko greeted her politely with a shallow bow, pretending she’d just happened to be in the right place at the right time.

“Ah, Amagi-san?” Sonomura called after her. Yukiko was a little startled at the honorific—most guests, on the rare occasion they interacted with her, went for cutesier modes of address thanks to her age—but then she all but glowed. It felt good, being taken seriously. Well, she was the representative of the Amagi Inn, as far as Sonomura was concerned. It wasn’t like she'd actually interacted with mother or father, busy as they both were.

“May I help you, Sonomura-sama?” she asked, applying as much polish to her manners as she could.

“Are the baths available? I was hoping to get to try them out.”  
Here it was: the reason for everything up to now. Yukiko kept her face to a neutral state as best she could, though she felt her already-broad smile curl up a little further.

“Of course! The women’s hour isn’t quite over yet. I can show you to them, if you’d like.”

“That would be wonderful, thank you.”

As she shepherded Sonomura towards the changing rooms, her mind raced. Should she just leave her to her own devices, so she could enjoy the onsen at her own leisure? Mother had said to talk up the best qualities of the baths, though, so should she go in too? After all, waiting around the changing rooms for her to come out would be a bit bizarre, and could put her off the inn if she figured out Yukiko had been set to trail her—especially if she started talking up the baths at the same time.

No, she decided. It would be better to go in at the same time.

“Um, excuse me,” she said, “I was planning on using the baths tonight too—I wouldn’t be intruding if I came in with you, would I?”

“Of course not,” said Sonomura, eyebrows raised.

Right. Thinking it over a little more, it was a little weird to ask permission to use your own baths when you owned them. Hopefully, she’d just brush it off as consideration for the comfort of the guests.

They changed and entered the onsen. Steam curled up from the water like a dragon’s breath. She reprimanded herself—the book would be there later. She had to focus on the now.

They sat in silence for a long while, letting the hot spring work its wonders. She took a breath, sucking in the warm, steamy air, and cast a glance over at Sonomura, whose eyes were closed like a monk in meditation.

“Sonomura-sama, may I ask what precisely you do?” she asked, mimicking her mother’s cadence. It seemed an appropriately grown-up question to ask.

“I work for a psychotherapy clinic,” said Sonomura, not moving a muscle save for her mouth. “Hiiragi Psychotherapy. It’s in Sumaru City.”

“Goodness, that’s rather far away,” Yukiko guessed, desperately trying to remember if she’d seen it on a map before, or maybe on the news. “What brings you to Inaba?”

Sonomura’s eyes flicked open, slowly as a princess waking from a hundred-year slumber—Yukiko worried for a moment that she’d misstepped somewhere, but she answered casually enough: “We’d heard good things about the waters here. They help with physical afflictions, right?”

“We?”

“Ah, my boss. She told me about it, actually, and suggested I come out here.”

This was sounding less and less like the covert operation mother had suggested. Had she mixed up Sonomura with somebody else, or assumed deeper intentions behind a simple trip? She had been under a lot of pressure lately, so it wasn’t out of the question.

“They are quite soothing,” she said—even if it wasn’t why she was here after all, there’d be no harm in talking up the place. “People who come here say their maladies fade away like magic.”

Sonomura smiled at that. “Like magic? Well, I’m glad I came, then.”

Yukiko couldn’t help studying Sonomura then. She was petite in stature, but it had nature intended for her to be that way? Her face was a little gaunter than average too—nothing serious, but noticeable if you were looking hard enough. Curiosity burnt bright within her; she couldn’t help herself when the question came tumbling out:

“You mentioned physical afflictions—is that why you’re here?”

“Yes, actually,” said Sonomura.

Yukiko blinked. She’d been expecting a more evasive answer than that—it was just what adults did around any sensitive areas, as far as she could tell.

“I’m sorry you’re having, um…”

“Oh, it’s nothing as bad as it sounds. It’s just that—well, I wasn’t the healthiest of kids, and all that time in bed’s come back to bite me as an adult. Just some aches and pains; nothing dangerous.” As if she picked up on Yukiko’s sudden feeling of awkwardness, Sonomura turned her head and smiled kindly at her. “It’s okay, really. My boss is just a bit of a worrywart.”

“Your boss ordered you here?”

“Yeah. Technically, I’m supposed to be here to examine the waters, see if it would be a good place to suggest to particularly badly-afflicted clients—”

Yukiko perked up. So mother had been right after all!

“—But she is a health-care professional and it would look bad for business if I wasn’t in top form. I guess she’s trying to kill two birds with one stone.”

“She sounds very considerate.”

“She really is—and far nicer to us lackeys than we deserve. She’s even been saying she might leave the shop to me when she retires. Hopefully it’s not for a good, long while. I hardly have as much experience as her.” She stopped, considering Yukiko with a long stare, before continuing: “So, you’ll take over the inn when you’re older?”

“When I’m much older, yes,” she responded.

“And you’re getting the training for it even now, when you’re still so young. Must be strange, working for your family.”

“Well, I—” Yukiko fumbled for an answer. “I don’t really know anything else.”

“That is the problem with only being able to live one life,” Sonomura said, a look of pensiveness coming onto her face, “There’s so much you can’t experience.”

“I take it you never worked for your parents’ business?” asked Yukiko. It was an inane question, spouted in a strange desire to steer the conversation away from its current trajectory. Why, she wasn’t sure. Sonomura only smiled, though now it was a version closer to flint than sunshine.

“Not in the traditional sense. Besides, I prefer where I am now.”

Naturally. _She chose it, after all._

Yukiko was surprised at herself for thinking such a thing. She quickly pushed it aside. There were other things to consider, such as the fact they’d been in for quite some time now.

“Ah, Sonomura-sama, forgive me, but I think the women’s hour is almost over.”

Sonomura looked surprised. “Oh, really? I must have lost track of time.”

They left the onsen, drying off and changing back into their yukata. Sonomura bade her goodnight, walking down the corridor to her room. Yukiko watched her go, a strange feeling still lodged in her throat, before returning to her room.

She looked over at the book. There was still time before bed. She plucked it from her desk, cover first. She hesitated. The princess, now that she looked at her again, seemed less nervous than she’d supposed. More—well, she couldn’t really put a word to it. Bored, maybe? Or—

She threw the book down. Maybe she should just turn in early.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Edited 8/10/17)


	4. THE EMPRESS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Empress - celebrate life’s grandeur, its brilliance, its magnificence.

The first hint she picked up on that this really wasn’t going to be like any of her other jobs had been when the maid who took her jacket, a woman as exquisitely beautiful as everything else in these rooms, had brought her the most expensive looking tea set she’d ever been trusted to handle unsupervised, bowed, and slipped off noiselessly.

She shifted, the sound uncomfortably loud even here, in what might very well have been the grandest, classiest room in which she’d ever had reason to sit—though Kei would be affronted by that thought, if she were ever to bring it up to him. Still, even he might have deemed the mansion acceptable enough, if not the family who owned it.

He'd made his feelings clear on the family when he'd first brought them up to her after all, over lunch at a Nanjo-owned restaurant in Sumaru City (they’d ended up there since, as the food came gratis for the company head—plus guests—it allowed for a compromise between Kei’s frankly ludicrous standards and her budget.) Between bites of lobster thermidor, Kei had mentioned that the Kirijo were looking for someone to photograph the CEO’s granddaughter, and that he could bring up her name—that is, if she was interested in helping him get an in on the company.

Kirijo, he’d gone on to insist, wasn’t the oldest name on the block and could not and would never be more impactful than Nanjo. Nonetheless, they’d come up on his radar thanks to the CEO’s newfound interests. After some digging, Kei—who among them was the best equipped to handle corporate-level espionage, even that which tinged on the mystical—had uncovered records on some object which had entranced the Kirijo patriarch and reportedly driven him to power-crazed madness. What was clear, at least according to Kei, was that they were either far too close to discovering the secrets behind Personas or, failing that, to bringing about the end-times.

Yukino didn’t particularly feel like going through a third doomsday scenario, but hadn’t really needed such an exorbitant incentive to take the job. The Kirijo, no matter if they were going to destroy everything, paid better than Kismet Publishing ever had.

On that thought, the ballroom-style double doors across from her swung open and a gaggle of maids came through en masse, swarming away like a flock of pigeons from the tall man at the centre of the group. Slightly behind him was a girl, tiny and solemn. Presumably the latter was Mitsuru Kirijo, who she was here to photograph. She was less sure of the man. Her father? A bodyguard? Maybe it was even a valet (though she never bothered to pay attention to Kei’s explanations as to the difference between one of those and a butler.)

They came striding over to her, though she noticed the man shortening his strides to let the girl keep up. He rose a few places in her estimation.

“Yukino Mayuzumi?” he asked.

“That’s me.”

“I’m Takeharu Kirijo. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

So, it was the girl’s father then—and more pressingly, the son and heir to Kouetsu Kirijo. She stood up, unsure whether to bow or shake hands (you never knew with these international jet-setter types, and Kirijo’s house was decorated in a western style.)

He bowed. Decision made, she mirrored the gesture. Kirijo waited for her to rise before introducing his young companion: “This is my daughter, Mitsuru."

“ _Enchantée_ ,” said the girl, politely bowing in turn.

Yukino must have looked dumbfounded, because Kirijo smiled proudly.

“Mitsuru has been learning French from her tutor."

French? She barely spoke English, let alone some other western language. Why hadn’t they sent Eriko along with her? She’d lived in Paris, for God’s sake, she would have been perfect in these surroundings—well, unless they somehow got her onto the subject of demonology. She’d never been great at hiding her fascination with the mystical and considering the Kirijo's reported dealings...

Actually, maybe it was good she’d been sent alone. She smiled at the girl, trying to exude a friendly air.

“Hello, Mitsuru-san,” she said, deciding to go a little politer than she usually would for a kid of her age—besides, kids liked being treated as if they were competent individuals, she’d found, on the few occasions she’d had to deal with them in previous photoshoots. “I’m here to take some photographs of you, if that’s fine?”

Mitsuru inclined her head graciously. “Of course,” she said. “I put myself into your care.”

She spoke in such a polite way, it put Yukino ill at ease. Was this how Kei had sounded as a kid? When she’d been the same age, she didn’t think she’d ever broken out such… proper grammar.

Yukino was quickly shepherded through the mansion to the room they wanted to show off in the photo. She’d thought their waiting rooms were nice, but her breath was taken away at the place they took her: it was spacious, with what was frankly an unnecessarily high ceiling and generously spaced walls—but more than that, everything in it was so impressively detailed and expensive-looking that she was scared to move too suddenly in case she found herself knocking over a Heian-era vase or Fabergé egg.

Kirijo gestured towards a great, oaken armchair. “We were thinking maybe here, if that’s suitable?"

“Yes, this should work,” she said, forcing herself to look straight at him instead of swivelling her head around and gawping like a tourist. “Though Mitsuru-san will appear rather small in comparison, if that’s all right with you?”

For a moment, she wondered if he could pull out a phone and have an exact replica in miniature made for the express purposes of the photoshoot. He probably could. Her question wasn’t to be answered though, as he just nodded.

“That should be fine. Now, I’m afraid I do have a meeting I have to get to—business, you understand. I leave the rest in your hands. If you require anything at all, please, just ask Saikawa-san.”

One of the maids, an older woman, bowed. Kirijo, sending a final smile over to his daughter, left the room. And now she was alone with her subject—or as alone as she could get with a dozen inconspicuous but clearly curious maids lining the walls.

Still feeling a bit overwhelmed, Yukino set to work trying to find the perfect angle. She walked around the room, examining the way the light and shadows fell. It was early morning, and thanks to a large set of windows built high into the east-facing wall, she had plenty of natural light to work with—so much of it, in fact, it made the silver-glazed ornaments and varnished floorboards gleam.

Mitsuru was quiet. In fact, she was like a tiny, painted statue: her back was straight and her hands were clasped loosely in front of her in a pose that would have fit a noblewoman from days long past. There was an exception to the motionless display, though: her eyes, which followed Yukino closely around the room. In some sudden burst of paranoia, the thought popped into Yukino’s head that she was making sure she wasn’t going to steal anything. She brushed the thought off immediately. She was here on a job. They were hardly looking for a reason to throw her out.

“Mitsuru-san? Can you come over here?”

“Of course,” said Mitsuru. Daintily, she settled herself into the chair. What she’d told Kirijo was even more true than she’d been expecting: with her little white dress, porcelain-pale skin and ringlets that gleamed almost red in the sun, she looked like more like an bisque doll than a person, the kind that were never taken out their boxes for fear of breakage or devaluation.

Yukino directed her to move her head slightly back, so the tresses would fall in a more pleasing way, then to tilt it slightly to the side so so the lighting would fall in a more slanted angle across her cheeks and neck. Mitsuru complied, but there was still something off, something she couldn’t quite get right.

“Mitsuru-san, do you mind if I—”

Mitsuru nodded, allowing Yukino to delicately place a hand on her head and move it slightly to the side. For a moment, she hyper-focused on her own hand. _If I was still like how I was back then, they’d not have let me in here at all, let alone near the second-in-line to the company._

“Is this chair all right, Mayuzumi-san?” Yukino jerked her head up to see Mitsuru looking at her, her previously poised, almost blank face giving way to something like concern.

“Huh?"

“I suggested this room to father, but I don’t know a lot about photography. If it won’t work, I’m quite happy for this to move elsewhere."

She was good at hiding it—a lot better than many kids her age —but there was something about the way she asked it that made Yukino suspect she really didn’t want to move. And she thought she knew why. Yukino glanced up at the walls once more. This room had been designed around a line of portraits, placed just out of the reach of the sun’s rays so they wouldn’t get damaged. Each pictured a woman sitting in a painted replica of this very room, each capturing a generation with different fashions, hairstyles and even room decor. The newest, one of a stunningly beautiful woman with a coy smile, looked very much like an older version of the girl in front of her.

She looked back down at Mitsuru, who’d followed her gaze to the wall. “It’s my job to make it work,” she told her.

Mitsuru turned back, letting out a tiny noise of satisfaction that Yukino suspected she wasn’t supposed to have noticed. She laughed, under her breath—whatever had happened to the kind of upper-class brat she’d always been told about, the ones who used tantrums to get what they wanted? Mitsuru must have heard her, because she went bright red and automatically ducked her head. When she peeked back up again, Yukino smiled at her. Mitsuru responded with her own small, appreciative one.

Well, if her wish was Yukino’s command, she had to see about fulfilling it. Yukino closed her eyes, taking a few moments to re-visualise the room and the way the light streamed into it. She considered her options. It would mean sacrificing the deeper shadows she’d been planning on having around the girl’s face, but she could try to put the subject’s entire body at a slight angle towards the sunlight. It was worth a shot, if nothing else. She told Mitsuru what to do, and when she shifted, Yukino all but snapped her fingers in triumph. There it was.

After that, it was a simple matter of snapping the photos. The little Kirijo made for a fine subject, at once elegant and capable of following Yukino’s instructions to the letter.

“That should do it,” she said, after taking pretty much every shot she could. “Well done, Mitsuru-san."

“Thank you, Mayuzumi-san,” she responded, with a little bob of a bow. Rising from the chair, she glanced back over to the portraits on the wall and came a little closer. “Truly,” she said in a low, hesitant voice, “I have no brothers, and as Father has told me he never wants to get married again, no matter what Grandfather says, it looks like my official portrait is going to be with father’s and grandfather’s, not with mother’s. So, thank you accommodating my request.”

Yukino felt the strongest urge to ruffle the kid’s hair, but she fought the urge. Instead, she lightly touched her shoulder and, as quietly as she had, murmured: "Like I said, Mitsuru-san. It was no problem.”

Mitsuru nodded, minutely, and returned to a normal volume. “Father ought to be back shortly. I shall wait with you until he arrives. Shall we have some tea together?”

“Lead the way, Mitsuru-san.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Edited 8/10/17)


	5. THE EMPEROR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Emperor - only courage in the face of doubt can lead one to the answer.
> 
> This chapter involves minor plot spoilers for Persona 5, though nothing that can't really be gleaned from trailers and such.

"Excuse me, are you Kazumi’s teacher?"

Hidetoshi had been psyching himself up for this for half-an-hour, and still his resolve faltered. He shoved all his uncertainty deep down where it couldn't embarrass him and, with more calmness than he felt, looked up from his paperwork.

"Indeed," he said, standing and bowing.

The butterflies settled down quickly enough after he carried out a quick examination of the man.

The first thing he noted was the strange disconnect between the man's oddly youthful appearance and his true age. He was older than Hidetoshi by little over a decade—in his mid-thirties, according to the documents he'd studied before the meeting—and yet wasn't the stern patriarch he'd painted in his mind. His face, the centrepiece of which was a pair of striking brown eyes, was framed by unruly black hair, cut in the longer-than-necessary style he remembered chastising male students for back in his student council days. As he bowed, it fell forward with him, ever so slightly shifting out of the way of a hoop earring. Well, naturally.

No. He forced himself to regroup. This wasn't some delinquent. It was a student's father, who deserved respect, and Hidetoshi would treat him as such. Nonetheless, he couldn't help the hint of disdain which crept into his tone when he addressed him: "I take it that you’re Kazumi Toudou's father?"

"That's right," Toudou said. "You asked for a meeting? About her behaviour?"

Ah. Hidetoshi could hear a faint tremor hidden away in there. So, he was nervous too. Good to know.

"Please, sit."

The chairs gave them more of an equal eye level, and as they settled on either side of the desk, Hidetoshi considered his plan of attack. Parents, from what he'd been told by colleagues, could be a nuisance to deal with—one of them, a maths teacher with whom he often conversed at breaks, had even whispered to him about an incident five or so years ago involving a lawsuit and subsequent sacking. Of course, she'd explained, the teacher in question had most likely deserved everything she got—by all reports what she'd done was heinous and the school was well rid of her—but even so, it didn't hurt to know what he was doing.

For his opening gambit, he decided on a polite: "Thank you for coming to see me."

"It's no problem. You sounded rather serious. Has Kazumi been causing any problems?"

Indeed, though he'd thought it best not to get higher-ups involved. It hadn't been an easy decision—his respect for the institution was unbreakable—but two years of teaching experience had shown him that some of his esteemed colleagues were rather quick to go for penalties harsher than the student's infraction. There were those who even seemed to take delight in it.

"You've heard about the current events concerning these so-called changes of heart?"

Toudou frowned, presumably thinking it to be a non-sequitur.

"Everyone with an Internet connection has."

Indeed. Though it was only rumour and no government official had come out and said anything, at times it seemed like the entire country had been infected with Phantom Thief fever.

"Including your daughter."

Toudou winced. Good. He wasn't bringing up new information. He pressed forward.

"Some of the things she has been saying in the classroom—well, whether or not these—" Ugh, and now he had to admit to their possible existence, "—Criminals exist, she is enraptured by their story. Enraptured enough that she's voiced some very passionate views."

The wince deepened.

"You will understand that this institution does have strict standards when it comes to disruption of school harmony." He considered how to phrase his next statement without casting any aspersions on the rest of the staff. "However," he decided upon, "I don't wish for this to go any further than necessary. We all have strong opinions in our youth and it would be unnecessarily harsh to force her to tamp down her enthusiasm."

"I understand your concern, Odagiri-sensei," said Toudou. “But can I ask how having strong opinions is disrupting class?"

Inwardly, Hidetoshi tensed. He didn't seem to understand. That wasn't the major issue here. Had she not brought it up to him? Was it possible that she didn't know? The only reason he'd not brought her in too was because he'd been so sure she had to have known. It seemed improbable otherwise—but then, the panicked face of that girl from all those years ago, Hasegawa, flashed in his mind. She hadn't known either—or at least that's what she'd protested.

Hidetoshi sighed, making Toudou, over on the other side of the table, tense with anticipation. He reached under the desk and pulled out the newspaper.

"Disrupting class is the least of it, Toudou-san."

Toudou stared at the paper like it was a wanted poster with his face on it.

"What's happened?" he asked. His voice was a little hoarse.

"Two days ago, this paper published a story in which one of our students, anonymously, claimed to be a Phantom Thief. No doubt it was just some foolish glory hound looking to boost their popularity without thinking through the consequences, but the police took it upon themselves to investigate. Nothing came of it in the end, thank goodness, but the school was embarrassed and the senior staff are adamant about finding and expelling the subject of the interview."

"And since Kazumi's not kept her views on the Phantom Thieves to herself, she's the prime suspect."

So he did understand, after all. Hidetoshi nodded, grimly.

"It's not her, I hope you know," Toudou said, determinedly, as he flicked through the ratty pages. "Even if she was one, she'd never reveal it. She knows how much interviews like this can hurt someone's reputation."

"Is that so?" said Hidetoshi. Parents, he'd found, rarely knew their children as well as they thought they did. While he too was hoping for Kazumi's innocence in the matter, he was hardly going to take such a biased party's word for it.

Toudou seemed to feel it in the atmosphere when Hidetoshi raised his eyebrows, because he continued on with the impassioned defence of his daughter's intelligence: "What I mean is we have several well-known family friends. Not all of them have been especially discreet in the past, though they learnt to be—and Kazumi was there for the fallout."

"It doesn't really matter at this stage whether she did or not."

"Of course it does."

Toudou had lifted his head out of the paper to fully express his firm, steadfast indignation, luckily just too slow to miss Hidetoshi's flinch. Damnable weakness. (He didn't particularly like to be reminded of third year at high school, and somehow Toudou had known just what to say to remind him of _that_ person.)

"Yes, Toudou-san. I know. It matters to you and me, but it doesn't to this institution itself. You understand that in order to survive, it must protect itself and its reputation from such scandals, no matter how they have come about."

"Scandals," said Toudou, flatly, putting the paper down between them. "I don't mean to be rude, but precisely how long have you been teaching here?"

Hidetoshi straightened in his chair. He didn't like that tone. It signalled a challenge to his authority, and he wasn't quite sure how to deal with it. Before this, seniors had been easy to spot: those with grey hair and wrinkles; those with dozens of years of teaching experience. Toudou was older than him and a parent, but with an air of youth and inexperience in these matters; Hidetoshi was younger, also had no idea what he was doing, but should probably have the reins in this, as Kazumi's teacher.

He decided to acquiesce. He had bigger things to worry about.

"Two years," he admitted, keeping his tone neutral.

"Ah, of course, that's right, I must have forgotten," said Toudou. He sounded light and pleasant, but Hidetoshi could feel the blow coming. "What you should understand is that when Kazumi started here, that marked the third generation of my family to have attended this school. So, I don't think I'm being out of line when I tell you I know this school, I know its history, and I know that it can survive ten-a-dozen scandals and be as unchanged as ever. Believe me. This place outlasted an apocalypse."

A crude metaphor, but an effective one. It was true that Hidetoshi hadn't entirely grasped the length and scope of St. Hermelin's history. The older teachers were quick to shut their mouths when it came to things they witnessed in their early years.

Toudou sighed. "But you're right that the staff here don't quite get that as well as they should. Not you in particular," he hastened to add, "The higher-ups are the worst ones for it. And they're the ones with the power to expel my daughter."

So, he did understand, at least somewhat. Hidetoshi was still discomfited by his blatant disregard for the effects such a scandal could have on St. Hermelin's, but at this point, they had an understanding and he needed that foundation they were to move forward on this.

"I agree," he said, primly.

Toudou stared right into Hidetoshi's eyes, freezing him in place with that striking stare of his. "You know, I don't see any of them here. If you thought this could hurt the school so badly, why is that?"

"I told you already: I don't want this to go further than strictly necessary."

"You think you have a way of dealing with this."

"You're the one who told me you had friends in high places, Toudou-san."

Well. Toudou and the school files he'd pored over. The class of '96 had been quite the assortment of famous names and faces.

Toudou leant back with a tiny grin. "You're not suggesting what I think you are, sensei? Not when Kazumi is always on about what a stickler for the rules you are."

"I have every respect for the rules, Toudou-san," he said, not appreciating the insinuation he was doing anything below-board. "I believe there are many on the subject of the exploitation of children for sensationalist news stories. And even more on innocence until guilt is proven."

Not that rules existing meant that they were followed, even by those who claimed to be the arbiters of pure, impartial justice. It had been a hard lesson for him, but one he was glad to have learnt. He recalled Saori Hasegawa, with no small amount of shame. His younger self had been so blinded by respect for the chain of command that he'd let Ekoda and his sort rain down fury upon her with naught a word in her defence; he'd be damned if he did the same now he knew what had to be done.

Toudou was looking at him with newfound curiosity and—if Hidetoshi wasn't just hoping for it enough to hallucinate it—a flicker of respect.

"You know, Odagiri-sensei, you remind me of one of the teachers I had here, twenty years ago." His tone suggested it was a compliment of the highest order, and Hidetoshi smiled—but he wasn't done. "I wouldn't put on any strange masks you find lying around."

"What? Why would—"

"Ten-a-dozen scandals buried here, Odagiri-sensei. And an apocalypse to boot. You should remember that if you plan on staying here long."

"Thank you, Toudou-san," said Hidetoshi, increasingly perturbed. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Will that be all, then?" he asked.

"I think that about wraps it up, yes," said Hidetoshi. "Unless there's anything you wish to discuss with me outwith the bounds of the previous matter?"

Toudou sat for a moment in consideration, then shook his head. "No, I think that about covers everything."

"Very well," said Hidetoshi. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Toudou-san."

Strangely enough, it didn't feel like a lie. Toudou was an odd fish, that was for sure, and still had the fashion sense of a teenager, but if nothing else, he cared for his daughter's wellbeing. And then, there was that implacable something about him that brought back memories.

As the door closed behind Toudou with a click, Hidetoshi sighed and slumped over his desk, making a mental note to force his older colleagues into explaining just what the hell had happened here twenty years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Edited 8/10/17)


	6. THE HIEROPHANT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hierophant - it is indeed a precious gift to understand the forces that guide oneself.

It was near the end of the day when Kimura came by his desk, all nasty grin and faux-friendliness.

"Man from the city here to see you, Dojima. Real fancy looking. Boss says to go right away. Could be a promotion, since you're, uh, pretty well-known now, huh?"

Kimura had never really mastered subtlety. Or mastered anything, really, save punching suspects and violating every rule in the Criminal Code. (He knew how a man held himself after being roughed up. And he knew who was in charge of interrogations the day he'd come by the holding block to see Adachi.)

Dojima was better at it, but damned if he wasted energy on the creep.

"I'll be there."

Kimura loitered a few moments longer as Dojima pointedly finished up the last sentence of his report, no doubt waiting for a reaction. When he next looked up, he was slinking off with a disappointed look on his face.

 _Good_ , he allowed himself to think, all but slashing the final kana onto the page in two vindictive movements. (He hadn't wanted to risk losing the report entirely by using one of the precinct's ancient desktops: there'd been too many past moments of crushing defeat as the screen froze and collapsed in on itself. Sisyphus would have wept.)

He filed away the report into its folder, got up and headed down the corridor to his superior's office. He straightened his back, took a moment to distinguish the sound of two different voices coming from within—a habit he'd developed over the years and one which had proven useful on more than one occasion—before knocking and entering.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Ah yes," said his superior, a plain-looking man by the name of Yamamoto. He rose up from his chair and gestured over at the stranger sitting across the desk from him; "This is Kei Nanjo. He's from the government."

He wasn't quite able to keep the awe out of his voice, and understandably so: Nanjo had turned when the door opened and fixed him with a calculating gaze from behind his thick-rimmed glasses, obviously sizing him up, and Dojima had done him the same courtesy.

He had presence, that was for sure—maybe more than anybody who'd come by the precinct in recent memory. The posture was the first thing that caught Dojima: even after twisting around, his body was positioned in that stiff, aristocratic way that took years—and maybe even lessons—to ingrain into muscle memory. His suit was high-quality, yet plain, obviously cut to draw attention to his own regality rather than add any extra frippery. He made Yamamoto's office, by far the nicest in the precinct, feel shabby as an abandoned playroom.

It didn't fit: this Nanjo didn't seem like the type to be sent out to small towns. (Though, somehow, that name was familiar. Some detective sense prickled the back of Dojima's neck—not that he put so much stock in it anymore, since it had completely failed him last year.)

He snapped out of his momentary reverie when Nanjo bowed—at a perfect angle and length, of course. He started talking even before Dojima managed to quickly get in his own.

"I have some questions regarding the incident from last year. I've been given to believe you know the case better than anyone, considering how close you were to some of the key players."

"Oh, right," said Dojima. So, Kimura had been right—well, his little underlying jab had been, anyway.

Yamamoto seemed to take that as a cue, exiting the room with a glance back at the scene. He trained his eyes on Dojima. It was easy enough to gather the message, Yamamoto not being a particularly hard one to read: _piss the government rep off, and you can piss off out of a job_. He'd always been a micromanager; this must have been killing him inside. He'd even poured Nanjo tea, he noticed. The cup lay on the table, half-drank.

If the most important guy in the precinct had been falling over himself to do all he could for their honoured guest, why did he need to speak with a lowly detective? The reports had been written months ago; and if he wanted information on how Adachi's testimony situation was going, a man of his standing could easily get to the holding cells himself.

He remained quiet, though. It was best not to give away more information than was asked for. One of the teachers at the academy had taught him that and he'd become painfully familiar with its practicality in recent years.

Nanjo leant forwards in his chair with a serious expression.

"What I'm about to tell you cannot be shared outside this room."

Yamamoto's office was one of the only unmonitored places here, so what he was saying made some sense. How did he know that, though? And what was so top-secret it could be shared with a rank-and-file and not his commanding officer?

There was silence for a few moments before Nanjo spoke again. "I will be frank with you, Dojima. You were not my personal choice for this. Or my second or third. However, Shirogane's work is better suited for moving around and it'll be years before Satonaka has any valuable position within this police division considering her age and gender."

He still had no idea what the guy was talking about, but he bit.

"Who's the third?"

"We considered transferring one Detective Kurosawa—Tatsumi Port Island division, works for us around the country sometimes too. But it seems Port Islanders are territorial. The head of the Kirijo Group herself personally got involved to keep him where he is."

"Oh."

It hit him then, where he'd heard the name Nanjo before: he'd been thinking of the company with the same name. While Kirijo was the more famous name in this part of the country—mostly due to their deep connection with the city they'd all but built with their own hands on Tatsumi—Nanjo was pretty big in its own right, bigger even. Was he one of those Nanjo?

Nanjo, unfortunately, hadn't stopped to let him consider the facts and was ploughing on.

"But as I said, you are involved with this already, though clearly not to the same level as the rest. Moreover, your position and authority within the Inaba PD is highly useful. The others would admittedly be outsiders, which would limit their ability to intervene with any new arising situations."

"Situations?"

Nanjo squared his shoulders and folded his hands together. "I will explain."

And he did.

By the end, his mind was awhirl. Shadows? Demons? Nanjo had even shoved his hand into Yamamoto's PC and followed it up by _summoning a ghost from his head_ to prove his ludicrous story.

It was not often Dojima felt faint. This was the exception.

Nanjo pushed over a glass of water he'd poured out for him. He'd sank down into Yamamoto's chair during the long explanation, not even remembering when exactly he'd done so.

"I think I might need something stronger," he admitted, but took a gulp nonetheless. "So. Let me get this straight. Demons are real. You've fought them. My nephew—living under my own roof at the time—and his friends saved the town from these demons. Twice. At great risk to his own life. With one of those spirits."

He looked behind Nanjo nervously. It wasn't there anymore, but he could still remember the old man's piercing eyes (and his bizarre hover-board.)

"Persona. And it was actually beings called Shadows with which your nephew had dealings. They're similar, of course, but not exactly the same."

"Right, with his... Persona. And Adachi has one too. He used it to push people into this land of the subconscious where they got killed by—not demons, but their own emotions made manifest. That's how Yamano and Konishi died."

"That is correct."

Everything was beginning to make some warped kind of sense: how Shirogane had caught out Adachi, which he hadn't been able to make sense of at the time; Yu's nonsensical excuses just before Nanako was kidnapped; hell, the murders themselves. All of it.

Dojima downed the rest of the water.

"And here I was thinking this was gonna be a tip on some corporate espionage."

Nanjo huffed a brief laugh. Some of the stiffness left his shoulders.

"Oh believe me, young lad, I'd like to see certain companies be thrown down a peg or two."

 _Young lad?_  Well, well, wasn't someone trying to act the big man—though, no. Never mind that now. Better to confirm his suspicions.

"Kirijo?"

Nanjo inclined his head with a grin. "They have become rather less arrogant under the current CEO—and the previous one too, I suppose, though that's not really such an impossible goal considering how terrible his own predecessor was. Though it was Takeharu who was leading when they had the audacity to run that ad campaign calling themselves number one. You’d think that since they decided to split off from us, they would try to make their own slogans but—ah, well. Maybe when the Shadows are less of a threat to the very existence of humankind they'll find their stock falling, but unfortunately, they're allies at the moment—if only of necessity."

His expression settled back into seriousness. The moment of levity had struck like lightning: fast, precarious, but most of all, bright—Nanjo had seemed so much younger with a smile lighting up his face. Yeah. He definitely wasn't as old as he was trying to make himself out to be.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"To be frank with you, this town has become a hotbed of Shadow activity over the past year. Even after your nephew's group managed to quell one threat, another quickly took its place—that's actually how we were alerted to Inaba in the first place."

Oh, wonderful. He'd not even wrapped his head around a threat that had already been dealt with and apparently there were more on the horizon.

"While having a group of Persona users on the side of the angels here is certainly helpful, we won't be able to count on them forever. Narukami, Kujikawa and Shirogane no longer live here, at least on a permanent basis. We've been given word that Hanamura, Satonaka and Amagi all plan on seeking out further education after their third year, which they obviously will not find in such a small town. No matter their talent, no matter if some are planning on returning here, we can't leave a Shadow hotspot guarded by whichever of these teenagers decide on staying here forever."

A feeling, somewhere between dread and anticipation, started crawling its way up Dojima's spine. "And you want me to what? Use of of those things myself?"

Nanjo smiled thinly. "Not necessarily."

Dojima let out a long breath of relief.

"No, we need a contact. Someone with the Shadow Operatives on speed-dial who can see the warning signs no one else will be able to comprehend. And a police officer such as yourself will have access to scenes and evidence other citizens would not."

Dojima leant back in his chair. He stared at the glass of water in front of him. It had settled enough for a faint, blocky reflection of himself to appear.

"You're putting an awful lot of confidence in the guy who spent a year neck-deep in this stuff and didn't realise any of it was happening," he heard himself say.

"Like I said, you weren't my first choice."

Dojima wondered if he should be offended at that, but Nanjo had steamrolled on ahead before he could make up his mind.

"That said, if you are interested in gaining a Persona, it would certainly be helpful in the long run. We need people on the ground who can act fast."

With that, he grabbed the briefcase he'd propped up against the desk. He input a code that Dojima couldn't identify from his angle then pushed it over.

Hesitantly, Dojima pushed the opening mechanism. It whirred, clicked, and opened to reveal an odd-looking gun.

"What's this?"

"It's called an Evoker. Kirijo tech, but it does get the job done. You put it to your head and fire. Your self-preservation reflex kicks in and brings out your Persona."

Dojima touched the gun, hesitantly. It certainly looked dangerous.

"Would I not just be able to, uh—" He poorly mimed something exploding from his head with a weak hand gesture.

"Probably not. Well. It is true that your nephew's group seemed to find a way, though that did involve deities."

"Deities."

Nanjo sent over a grimace of commiseration. "Over the years, it's become harder and harder to summon a Persona just like that. And the Persona game doesn't seem to work anymore. We're not entirely sure why. It can't be anything good, that's for sure."

Dojima picked up the evoker, turning it over in his hands.

"And if someone doesn't have these summoning powers? It doesn't blow their head off, right?"

"Usually we only give Evokers to those we know for a fact to have the potential," Nanjo admitted. "However, I've found from personal experience that potential is rather more common than some of our colleagues seem to assume."

Kirijo colleagues, he could almost hear him not say.

"I'd go as far to say almost anyone can do it, with the strength of will and the—well, how to put it—proper impetus."

Dojima turned it over in his hands once more and, hesitantly, lifted it out of the crushed velvet interior. Then he returned to his senses.

"I don't think that will be necessary," he said. His voice came out weaker than he'd been hoping. He cleared his throat before continuing: "However, considering everything that has happened under our noses and the... proof you've shown me, having a liaison between your organisation and Inaba PD does seem like a good idea."

Gingerly, he put the gun back in the case and was about to push it back over the table when Nanjo stopped him with a raised hand.

"Keep it," said Nanjo. "You never know what might happen. Besides, Kirijo can just make another one."

He leant back in his chair, picked up his cup and drained the remainder of Yamamoto's tea. Then, he smiled.

"So, detective, let me fill you in on what you'll need to know about us." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Edited 8/10/17)


	7. THE LOVERS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Lovers - there are many ways to turn at the crossroads, but only one road can be taken.

Lisa sipped the mojito through a straw. Nice. Refreshing, with the overpowering taste of mint and just a little lime. Not everyone knew how to make a good one.

She adjusted her sunglasses and leant back in her chair, letting her finger flick up lazily against her phone screen. A blurry image of Mee-ho glared out of the article, face framed by a bejewelled hand scrabbling for the camera. Lisa sighed, and continued on, taking another sip as she did so.

Mee-ho, Mee-ho, Mee-ho. She should really know better by now, but last time Lisa and Sheba had staged an intervention, she'd gone on about how notoriety was better than not being known at all. At the time, she'd supposed it was supposed to be a shot at Sheba's graceful step back from the limelight, but on reflection, she'd probably been equally pissed off about Lisa's own on-and-off again relationship with fame. She could sympathise. She got annoyed by it herself, sometimes; though admittedly not enough to do anything about it.

She turned her attention back to the text accessorising Mee-ho's night out on the town. Behind her sunglasses, her eyes narrowed into slits as the article went into some of her more virulent comments about her ex-bandmates.

" _Puk gaai_ ," she hissed under her breath. Going after her was one thing, but Sheba had done nothing but try and stay out of her way all this time. Bringing up her name when she was actively trying to be forgotten was a total dick move.

She exited out of the article, and had just clicked on the icon for texts, ready to scream at her—well, type angrily—when she heard a gasp from nearby. Crap. There wasn't anyone here who could understand Cantonese, right? Maybe she could just brush it off as them mishearing her?

But then, she noticed her. It was a young girl, probably in her early teens. Her hand was over her mouth and her eyes had gone almost as round as Lisa's in her surprise. A fiery blush settled over her cheeks when she noticed Lisa's face pointed in her direction.

"Um, I'm so sorry," she said, breathlessly, "But are you Miss Silverman?"

She could already tell which era the fan had discovered her. Muses had been sinking in popularity a few years into its existence, so Ginji had hit upon the idea to use the front-woman's heritage to the band's advantage, revamping the group around a vague Americana aesthetic—not that she'd been able to help with accuracy, never having visited the old country in person until later in life. She'd been placed in a Southern Belle role, royally pissing off her New York-born-and-raised dad, which was the main reason she'd agreed to the whole idea—it'd been hilarious to see him try and put across why he was mad without breaking character as more Japanese than the Japanese.

The idea had been disastrous, of course. After about a year, Muses had plummeted, never recovering their old popularity. This had to be one of the younger fans, then.

Lisa wondered if she should call over security—it was never ideal for fans to be able to break into the building. Some of them could get violent when they figured out that their fantasies weren't as reality-based as they'd expected. Admittedly, this one didn't fit the typical profile of the more unhinged ones—what Sheba had dubbed the "stabby-stabby fan". This one was too young, too female. Still, though, you never knew.

And yet, she found herself studying the girl. She was holding her breath, waiting for a response, growing increasingly more crestfallen as the seconds ticked by. Eh, what the hell. She lowered her sunglasses with her index finger, took the straw out of her mouth, and set down the mojito.

"Who's asking?"

"Oh! I'm Rise Kujikawa," said the girl, a big, broad smile blooming on her face. "It's such an honour to meet you, really! You've been such an inspiration to me!"

Huh. Usually people gravitated more towards the more relatable idols, since Ginji had told her to play up the "untouchable exotic other" card. Then again, Ginji had been a fucked-up, perverted idiot who'd caused the band to crash and burn. He was hardly a font of wisdom.

"Thanks," she said.

"Miss Silverman-"

"You can leave off the 'miss'; I understand Japanese just fine," she said. The "Miss Silverman" schtick had got old years ago, but people still seemed to assume she preferred to be addressed as such, like she was their English teacher, or something (hell, maybe some of the creepier fans enjoyed it precisely because of that. Ugh.)

"Silverman-san," said Kujikawa, before floundering.

Run out of things to say already, had she? Well, Lisa liked to think she wasn't the sort of malicious person who'd let an innocent girl embarrass herself, so she stepped in.

"What brings you here, Kujikawa-san? This place is off-limits to the public, you know."

Kujikawa grabbed the lifeline. "Oh, I'm here for the tryouts. They were calling for people who were interested to come on over, and I was interested, so I—oh, uh, but you probably know all about that, huh."

Yeah, she did. Auditions, the bane of the performer's life. Even years after she'd stopped needing to attend, the idea of going before a panel so they could decide your fate gave her chills.

"You're here for tryouts? Good luck with that. I always hated them, myself—so much pressure to be perfect. Slightly less pressure than an honest-to-God concert, mind you. But stressful enough."

Kujikawa looked surprised at that. "You got stressed?" she asked. The disbelief in her voice was innocent enough, but it still pissed Lisa off. What, had she expected her to be an automaton?

"Obviously. Everyone does."

"Oh well, that's a relief."

"A relief?"

"Well, if you got nervous, then I guess it's okay that I am too. I mean, you pushed through and succeeded, after all!"

Ugh. It wasn't her fault, but what with everything going on, she didn't need some bright-eyed kid reminding her of little versions of Lisa and Mee-ho and Sheba, best friends forever. She let loose a tiny " _fanna_ " under her breath, where Kujikawa wouldn't be able to hear it (she didn't deserve it. Not really. She was just a naive kid.)

"It's not just about the audition, though, you realise," she said.

"It's not?"

"It's all about the lifestyle, too. Tell me, you ever done drugs? Compensated dating? Anything scandalous like that?"

"What?" The girl looked shocked at the fact those words were coming out of her mouth, let alone at the suggestion she might have dipped her toes in them. "Of course not!"

Of course not. Kujikawa seemed like a nice young lady and any decent Japanese girl, as her beloved father had always made crystal clear, would never get involved with such shadiness. (For the less decent, things were always going to be less simple. Ginji had needed to go to some lengths to get rid of any stains on his precious money-makers.)

"Yeah," she said, after a long moment passed between them. "What sort of degenerate would get involved in things like that?"

Kujikawa looked a little stricken at that. Maybe she knew. Actually, scratch that, she definitely knew. Any fan sufficiently invested would, after that one exposé. It had been the beginning of the end—everything had been officially denied, of course, and the tabloid, overestimating their own financial security, had imploded after being sued to high heaven. And yet, it had still marked the decline and fall of their own little empire.

"So. You should be fine, career-wise. As long as you don't start dating anyone, of course."

"Dating?"

"None. Not while you're an idol, anyway. All the pervs need to think they have a chance at you." At that, Kujikawa blanched. She thought of stopping there—but no. If she was going to sign her life away, she'd know to what fresh hell she was doing so. Lisa wasn't going to shut up until she did.

"And, of course, you'll need to keep up your persona in public, so that they can believe what you're showing them is real, because heaven knows, most of the audience are man-children who think the world owes them and can't distinguish their own twisted fantasies from reality. One of them came after Sheba with a knife, you know. She still has a scar."

"It's okay," Kujikawa said.

Lisa paused. "What is?"

"I understand you're trying to help me, Silverman-san." Damn, the kid had seen right through her in seconds. That was actually pretty scary. "But really, I mean it. It's okay. This has been my dream, since forever."

Had she not heard a single goddamn word she'd been saying?

" _Kehhei_ ,” Lisa grumbled. Kujikawa blinked in confusion, but Lisa forged onward: "Do you think you're the only one who had dreams about this, Kujikawa-san? They rarely stay dreamy once you've actually accomplished them."

Kujikawa's expression turned stubborn. "Don't get me wrong. I appreciate what you're trying to do. But I can handle it, I promise."

"Oh, you think you'll be better at living the idol life than me?"

"What? No that's not what I meant! I—"

"No. Hold onto that attitude. You're never gonna get anywhere by apologising for existing all the time." Kujikawa's face lit up, but before she got any wrong ideas, Lisa quickly continued on: "It's still a terrible idea to get involved in this, you know. This industry eats you up and spits you out. People don't give a damn about who you are underneath. They might pretend to, and you might even believe them. But they don't."

"It'll be fine, Lisa-san. I know I can do it!"

"Enough with the peppy attitude. You haven't even done anything yet. Tell me again in a few years; I might believe you then."

Kujikawa opened her mouth again, indignant, but she snapped it shut when her name was called.

"Is there a Rise Kujikawa here?"

"Um, yes! That's me!"

"Come on in."

Kujikawa's breathing shortened. "Oh. Okay. This is it, I guess."

"Kujikawa-san," said Lisa. Kujikawa whipped around to look at her. Even after everything Lisa had just thrown at her, she still wore the expression of someone witnessing their god—even if that god had turned out to be a bit of an ass—and it melted the edges off what Lisa had been about to say. "Just. Just do your best, all right? I'll see you on the flip-side."

She hadn't planned on hanging around, but after seeing the bright look it put on Kujikawa's face, she could hardly scarper off.

"Right! I'll do my best, Silverman-san!"

"And... uh."

Kujikawa cocked her head.

"It's nice to meet a fan," Lisa admitted, "You know, people don't really remember us so much anymore. It's nice to see that people did actually enjoy our stuff."

"Of course we did! You guys were the best!"

With that, she all but floated into the audition hall.

It shouldn't have hit her quite so hard. Lisa quickly pushed up her sunglasses to hide her stinging eyes, in case she couldn't contain any stupid tears. To distract herself, she grabbed her phone again, her text history with Mee-ho glowing in grey and white. She hesitated, but then grunted and snapped her phone shut. She could deal with her later.

With a sigh, she slumped down in her chair, elbow on the table in front of her, one hand supporting her head. Her fingers curled and gripped at the side of her face while she sucked down a little more of the mojito, keeping an eye on the door.

" _Holeen_ ," she lamented softly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried sticking mainly with phrases Lisa actually uses in-game.  
> puk gaai - drop dead  
> fanna - annoying  
> kehhei - damn it  
> holeen - poor thing
> 
> (Edited 8/10/17)


	8. THE CHARIOT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Chariot - one of life’s great blessings is the freedom to pursue one’s goals.
> 
> This chapter contains major spoilers for the second dungeon of Persona 5, so be warned!

Masao snatched up a canapé from the table as he cast an eye around the makeshift gallery.

He’d been thrilled at first when he’d first been asked to lend a piece; any artist would be eager to see their work featured in the same collection as a Madarame. Still, since actually travelling out here, his elation had dissipated just a little. Inaba was tiny and he was beginning to get the sneaking suspicion that whoever was curating had seen that his name matched the town’s and decided that was a good enough reason to feature his work—he was hardly new on the scene, but they had a _Madarame_ and there was a reason Masao had the spare time to come out to a country town fair.

He was also beginning to suspect that the curators were less interested in the art itself than the numbers they would draw to the gallery—not that there was anything wrong with that in itself, but it was a little disconcerting to see how little care they’d taken with their less famous pieces. For one, there was an _ukiyo-e_ shoved into a dark corner not a few paces from where he was standing, obscured by shadow and ignored by everyone—the plaque below dated it from 1890, titling it _Seasons on the Samegawa_. He had to lean in close to make out the details and colours. It wasn’t half-bad—not that anyone would be able to tell, hidden away as it was.

"Sir!"

His concentration had been so fixed that he jumped, letting out a tiny screech. "Hey! Don't sneak up on me like that!" he said, flustered, while the voice's owner—a young woman in an official looking security uniform—jerked back a little. 

“Sorry! I just—I mean, guests aren’t allowed to get too close to the art work, so could you move back a little?”

“Oh, uh—sure, sorry.” He stepped back, grimacing as the shadows fell back on the painting.

The girl obviously noticed. “You know, I don’t know much about about art, but it’s a shame they hid this one away like this, huh?”

“I know, right?” said Masao, shooting her a glance. On second glance, though she was dressed as a security guard, she seemed far too young for it to be her actual profession; she looked like she’d only just left high school, if that.

“Yeah!” she said, obviously enthused she’d found someone who agreed with her. “You’d think the ‘Celebrating Inaba’ exhibit would actually, you know, celebrate Inaba instead of just that Madarame guy. I mean, his painting has nothing to do with Inaba!”

Neither had Masao’s, to be fair. His suspicions about his name being the only reason he was selected were solidifying.

“Why do they have his stuff here?” he asked, genuinely curious. Maybe the security would know more than him. “I mean, I don’t wanna be rude or anything, but there are galleries worldwide desperate for his stuff and this place is—well, I mean, it’s nice and all but it’s—”

“It’s Inaba,” the security guard agreed. “Well, honestly, I was surprised too. I’m not even that much into art and I’ve heard of the guy, y’know? But apparently, the Ichijo—uh, they’re this really rich old family who live here—well, they got his hands on one before he made it super big. So now they want to make sure everyone knows they have one.” A few awkward moments of silence passed between them, before she started up again: “Oh! Um, sorry, I’m Chie Satonaka. I just realised I hadn’t said.”

“I’m Masao Inaba.”

“Inaba? Haha, well you’re in the right place!”

Masao laughed, despite the fact he’d heard that exact joke at least four times since getting on the train down here.

“Huh… wait, I know that name from somewhere.” She frowned deeply at him. “Hmmmm. Wait… oh! You’re one of the artists!”

Pride swelled in his chest as he confirmed it with a smile and nod.

“You did the graffiti mural, right? The purple tree with all its branches kinda, um, hanging down and making the walls of the blue room? I really liked that one! It felt super relaxing, for some reason.”

“Oh, thanks!” said Masao, chest inflation levels now getting to a dangerous high. “Glad you liked it.”

“Yeah! I mean, at first I was a little confused about what it had to do with Inaba, but then it just felt so familiar, somehow.”

Huh. It’d never got that reaction before. Well, aside from one very specific group of acquaintances, of course. Something like suspicion crawled its way over him; he opened his mouth, unsure of what question he should even ask, when suddenly, a great ruckus suddenly exploded from what sounded like a few rooms away.

“Oh—damn it, I gotta go!”

In an instant, Satonaka was darting off towards it, leaving Masao frozen in place, mouth still open with awkward words barely formed.

Recovering himself, he quickly tried to follow her. She was fast, though, way faster than him, so when he finally arrived on the scene she’d already got the—well, he could have been anything, be it a thief, molester or maniac—by the arm.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she boomed.

“Please,” he said, “You gotta understand. That’s—that’s mine!”

Masao followed the man’s stare to—wait, was that the Madarame? He flicked his eyes back to the man. He was scruffy: a few days’ worth stubble decorated his cheeks; his clothing was well-worn and even ragged in places. No, he didn’t give off the vibe of someone rich enough to own one. Though it was true that there were eccentric billionaire types who collected art, so—

That line of thought trailed off, though as he noticed the growing crowd around the pair of them. The Madarame was the exhibition’s draw, after all; more than half the visitors had been crammed in to look at it and the rest were bustling nosily towards the noise.

He wasn’t the only one who’d taken a while to realise it either. “Ha ha,” said Satonaka, in a high voice, as she realised how many people were staring at them in shock, “Nothing to, uh. Nothing to see here, folks! Just—just, um—”

“You know, uh, you’re right!” said Masao, inspiration striking him, “I mean, who does art belong to, but the viewer?”

Satonaka and the strange man stared at him as though he’d gone mad; he stared back, hard. Satonaka seemed to clock his idea after a few long moments though, blinking in realisation and nodding minutely at him.

“In—indeed!” she said, in the least convincing way he’d ever heard. “And in that way, are we not all citizens of Inaba? Let’s—let’s grow closer to our town through these artists’ eyes! Welcome to the Celebrating Inaba exhibit, everyone!”

Not what he would personally have gone with, but it seemed to work. Behind him he heard the faint mutter of someone commenting on the tackiness of small towns and their lack of appreciation for the subtlety of the arts.

“What are you—” said the man, indignantly, before Satonaka’s grip twisted vice-tight.

“You want me to drag you away, in front of all these people? Because I—”

“Yes!” said the man. Her threat trickled away into a short stutter as he continued on, volume raising, “How else am I going to get them to realise—”

“Okay, okay!” she said, panic lacing her voice. “Just—just stay quiet for now, okay?”

Pleadingly, she stared at Masao. Obligingly, he grabbed the man’s other arm.

“Dude, c’mon, let’s just talk this out, okay?”

The man laughed, despairingly. “No. No, nothing can sort it out. Nothing can—”

He broke off into what sounded like quiet sobs, and came along, like a lamb, to a small break room far from the exhibit.

“Ugh,” said Satonaka. “Well, at least I’m getting the proper kind of experience, I guess?”

“Hm?”

“Oh! Um, this isn’t really my proper job? I’m just covering for these guys since they got food poisoning.” Discreetly as he could, Masao shoved the canapé he’d had the good fortune not to eat yet onto the table they were walking past. “I thought helping out until they recover might be good experience? It’s not paid, admittedly, but Dojima-san said he’d do my reference for the Police Academy? I mean, he already did my reference but I think he forgot.”

She wanted to be a cop, huh? Unbidden, the weary faces of the Mikage-Cho PD flashed by in his head. He’d had so many run-ins with them when he was a kid that they’d greet him by name. They’d reached some sort of bond, those local cops and him—some understanding that meant they’d drop the stern act when he was marched in, just shake their heads and sigh at him. Some would even mock-critique the graffiti they'd dragged him in for. Then the demons had come and, well, there weren’t any members of the old guard left to scoff at him.

He forced himself out of his reverie; Satonaka was still talking. Probably since she was nervous, now that he thought about it.

“Jeez, I hope nobody steals anything while I’m gone,” she said, “I’d totally lose my job.”

“I’m pretty sure there’s supposed to be more than one member of security, especially considering you’re not even a professional,” said Masao. “If anything, you could sue them for… negligence?”

“I don’t know if that’s what that means,” said Satonaka, though she seemed to brighten a little. Dumping the man into a plastic seat and rooting about in the drawers of the desk next to it, she grabbed some tissues and thrust them into his hands.

“Um, are you okay?” she asked, hesitantly. “Do you need any more tissues?”

“I’m fine,” he said, sharply, before his shoulders slumped. All remaining fight seemed to evaporate out of him.

“Oh. Okay, then,” she said.

“Hey, uh… what’s your name, man?” asked Masao.

“Nakanohara,” he said.

“So, Nakanohara-san… what do you mean, that the painting’s yours? You aren’t saying it was stolen from you?”

“Wha—stolen?” said Satonaka, voice going indignant. “Sure, the Ichijo aren’t exactly the most open and loving of families, but one of them’s my friend, okay? So you’d better have some—”

“Ichijo…? Oh. Oh, no. That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“I mean it’s mine. My painting. It’s mine! I painted it!” His voice had risen again, but he brought himself down this time. “Sorry. I just—I was one of his students—Madarame’s students, I mean, though that’s a terrible term for it, student. He’d find us, see, use his famous name to make us think he was legit and made us sign contracts to become his students. _Students_. What a crock of bullshit he fed us, and still, all of us fell for it. He went for the ones who would, you realise. Poor artists, ones who had talent but no money for materials or exposure, who had no other alternative if they wanted to continue doing what they loved. He even had this kid he’d raised—Yu-kun, we called him—he did the exact same thing to him; it was sick.”

The guy was crazy. Madarame was one of the most respected—most _respectable_ —artists in Japan. Still, he seemed so sincere. And even as his brain told him it couldn’t be true, it was still poring over his memories of the works that he’d studied. All so different, all of them. The work of a true master, to be able to change and adapt his style so completely, as to look like it was done by someone else.

“Well, couldn’t you go to the police?” asked Satonaka.

“There was a girl who tried. That’s how we found out he’d set it up so we couldn’t say anything without getting sued to high heaven or worse. Not that anyone would believe some envious, ungrateful no-name trying to smear their saintly master, right? Right? Anyone who tried lost everything.”

Satonaka looked down at her hands.

Nakanohara laughed. “But that was mine. My first painting. I was so proud of it. And then I see an advert for the exhibition, splashed front in centre on a leaflet they’re handing out at the station… next thing I know, I’ve bought a ticket out here. I didn’t even know if I wanted to see it at an exhibition, finally, or if I wanted to scream at everyone that he’s a liar and a fraud until I got here.” He crumpled even more. “Ugh, what am I even doing here? I can’t do anything about it. I’m a bank teller, not a—not some heist expert. Ha. Maybe I could hire a thief to take it back,” he said, a tired grin sliding onto his face. “Like the ones in those kid cartoons.”

His mumbles were turning indistinct now. Masao cast a look at Satonaka.

“Uh… Inaba-san?” she whispered, though she could have screamed and Nakanohara wouldn’t have paid any attention, “Do you think—do you really think he’s lying? He looks really upset… I mean, even if he isn’t really the real painter, I think he really believes it.”

“I have no idea. I don’t even know how you’d even go about figuring that out. I mean, it's Madarame. Nobody would ever suspect him of anything."

He didn’t expect the determined glint Satonaka got in her eye at that.

“Figuring out the truth, huh.”

Ah, well. She did want to be a cop, after all. Before he could respond, though, she gasped: “Oh! Crap, I need to get back to the exhibition before they figure out I’ve been gone so long!” Still, she hesitated, casting a deeply concerned glance over at Nakanohara. “I—I guess I should…?”

“I can take him out of here,” said Masao. “I really don’t think he’s gonna do anything. Not like this.”

“No, I guess not,” she said, clear relief coursing through her voice. “Thanks! I should go, but—it was nice meeting you!”  
  
“Nice meeting you too,” said Masao, flashing over a quick grin.

She smiled back before disappearing out into the main gallery. His smile dropped though, after he realised he’d forgotten to ask about her strange reaction to Respite. Still, the shaking man beside him took precedence. Hopefully she’d still be here when he got back.

“Come on,” he said to Nakanohara, pulling him up, “We should go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this took a lot longer to actually get done than I thought! Life unfortunately has a habit of getting in the way. The good news is that a lot of Strength is already written, and then next couple of chapters after that are all but done!


End file.
